Confido Memoria
by Pacific Rose
Summary: How would you choose to be remembered? By your accomplishments, your heroism, your academics? Or maybe by the smaller things: love happiness, a moment in time when all seems well. Which kind of memory do Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny choose?
1. The Beginning

Confido Memoria, The Beginning

In Hogwarts library there lies a book, on the very last shelf of the very last row: _'Hogwarts, a History'_. Forty-two copies lined up side by side, their leather bindings creased by student use. Pages are ripped here, torn there, weathered and faded and old. Some of the bright minds that have passed through this castle may have called these texts "highly biased", "selective" or "incomplete", for even in a thousand pages, the school's entire history and function cannot be fully described. If this statement is true, then there is one copy of _'Hogwarts, a History'_ that is slightly more informative than the rest. On the outside it looks no different, just as wrinkled, used and torn as its fellow books. But on the inside, on the very last page, there are two words and six symbols. They are unique to this copy, and make it very, very different from the rest.

There are the words _Confido Memoria_, traced in strong and confident black letters. Beneath them, in a single, neat row, are six shinning images: a lightening bolt, a chess piece and a clear Remembrall, a blue flame, a feather and a yellow full moon. If you look hard enough the pictures seem to come alive, shimmering, glistening, real and solid. And if you look away from the book, around the grounds, you might discover similar symbols etched on trees, benches, tables and walls. If, on the arm of the cushiest chair in the Gryffindor common room, you could trace with a finger the words _Confido Memoria_, found carved into the wood. If all at once you touched those words, both in the book and on the chair, then you would find the world falling away, to become a very different, yet similar, place…

* * *

The common room was quiet; it was twelve o'clock and only three students were not in bed. They sat in armchairs by the fire, books and papers strewn about them, all heavily concentrated on their work. Hermione Granger, the only girl of the trio, rubbed her eyes as she searched for yet another fact in her history textbook. The teacher for that subject, the ghostly Professor Binns, had assigned an essay on the wizarding prison Azkaban, as a welcome back present to the now sixth-year Gryffindors. At least, it was supposed to be a present. According to their professor, the essay was supposed to be "easy, as it relates to the Azkaban breakout a few months ago, which I'm sure you all know plenty about." It was the first history essay they had ever had to complete that did not involve dates and facts from over two hundred years ago, and so maybe Professor Binns was being generous, but still, with two feet of parchment – on top of homework on Potions, Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology – was really a lot of work. Hermione kept reading and writing, and had filled up half her paper when the black-haired boy sitting beside her, Harry Potter, said: 

"They'll never remember him."

Hermione looked up from her parchment, as did the other boy of the group, Ron Weasley. They exchanged quick glances, then looked back at Harry, knowing not to pressure him into speaking. Ever since the death of his godfather, Sirius Black, Harry had been acting very moody. Four months had passed since the incidents at the Department of Mysteries, and at times he was still heavily depressed, others almost unbearably cheerful. This was his way of coping with grief, alternately wallowing in sorrow and 'what ifs', and putting up an 'I'm perfectly OK' façade. In their two weeks back at Hogwarts, and during the time spent together at The Burrow during the summer, Ron and Hermione had learnt that the appearance of Harry's true personality, the way he used to be, was very rare. Since returning to school, a place flooded with memories of the Marauders, letters and visits with Sirius, Harry had been in his depressed mode, barely speaking. And so they listened closely as Harry said again:

"They'll never really know him. Sirius.".

By unspoken consent, Harry godfather was not commonly discussed, and so his name hung in the air between them, heavy, oppressing, and all three friends shifted uncomfortably under its weight. And then Harry exploded, his emotions and fears flying loose.

"It's not fair that Sirius died. It's not. Because now, the world will never know him. The only record wizards will have of him is as a mad and deranged murderer, who killed Peter Pettigrew in cold blood. But that isn't true. That isn't Sirius. The Marauders. The way he laughed, or gave advice, or gave me my Firebolt in third year. His intelligence, his dedication to his friends, his…his passion! In fifty years, who's going to know about these things, the ones that represent the real Sirius Black? No one, that's who. And in a hundred years, who will remember us? We'll be just three names in a book; 'The Boy Who Lived', 'Hermione Granger' and 'Ron Weasley'. They're just names, and nothing more._ Just bloody names_. "

Silence filled the air, and Ron and Hermione gaped, shocked. This was the most Harry had ever said about his godfather, and the anger and disturbing reality of his words unsettled them. Even Harry seemed surprised at himself, as if he had only just come to realize the full meaning of what he had said. He slammed his books shut, picked up his things with shaking hands, and then ran up the stairs to the boy's dormitory.

* * *

The next weeks went by in a blur. Teachers piled on the homework, since the sixth year students were now starting their NEWT level classes. The exams themselves were not for another two years, but this didn't stop Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout and Binns from stretching the memory, concentration and patience of their students to the limit. "Your NEWT exams will determine the path of your future, and your station and employment in the wizarding world," had said Professor McGonagall, in a speech much like the one they had received while working for their OWLs. "You may think that the end of seventh year is a long time away, but trust me, the exams will come sooner than you realize. If you do not start preparing and working diligently now, then I assure you that your NEWT marks will be very disappointing indeed." 

On top of all the homework, Quidditch season was starting up, and Harry, more talkative since venting his feelings, was busy with multiple practices as Gryffindor's Seeker. Ron had chosen not to try out for the team this year, and was still recovering from occasional taunts about his Keeping skills and Slytherin renditions of 'Weasley is Our King'. His Prefect duties kept him occupied, and with campaigning for S.P.E.W, Hermione was busy as well. Even so, she still found time to talk to Ginny about Harry, and about his slowly improving condition. Over the summer, the twins, Bill and Charlie had been away, and so at The Burrow Ginny had spent more time with Ron, Hermione and Harry. Their tight, close-knit trio remained, but outside of it, under Ron's mumbling and grumbling, Ginny had become a better friend to all of them. What Harry had said about not being remembered bothered Hermione, in a way that death and violence never could. To have no one look back, to live life and then disappear without a trace, was to her a thoroughly disturbing concept. So she talked things over with Ginny, sparking an idea, which she presented a few days later:

"Confido Memoria."

"Pardon?" said Ron, sprawled out in the grass. On a rare peaceful and homework-free Saturday, he and Harry were lazing by the lake, watching the Giant Squid as the autumn breeze rustled the leaves around them. Ginny was with them too, taking a break from her OWLs Transfiguration homework. Only Hermione seemed to have motivation, and was quickly shifting from side to side as she explained herself.

"Do you remember the conversation we had a few weeks ago, about Sirius and remembering him and us? Well, I've been thinking, and I think I've found a solution."

Harry sat up with a jolt, eyes alight, and Ron quickly picked himself up from the grass. Ginny leaned in, and they all sat together in a circle as Hermione continued.

"It wouldn't help Sirius. He's already gone, and it's too late for something like this. But," she said, seeing Harry's fallen expression, "it might help people to remember us, which is just as important, if not more so. The charm is called _Confido Memoria_ – it was Ginny's idea. She was talking about Tom Riddle's diary, and about how he preserved his memories, which made me think that we could do that too. Of course," Hermione glanced at Ginny, "it wouldn't be the same thing. We would keep a copy of our chosen memories somewhere, but no more, nothing evil or intelligent or with a mind of its own. I found the charm in the Restricted Section, in a book about Patronuses. In the early stages of the development of _Expecto Patronum_, wizards tried to project a copy of their present selves, instead of a Patronus fuelled by the past. They used the phrase _Confido Mox_, 'Trust in the present'. I just changed the incantation a bit, so that instead if the present ,we use the past. See…"

She held out a piece of parchment, and with a swish and a jab of her wand, said the _Confido Memoria_ incantation. A small drawing appeared upon it, and when Hermione touched it, a glistening, moving picture emerged, growing until it was life-sized. It showed a young Ron, standing and hugging his mother by the Hogwarts Express in first year. Hermione moved her hand away from the parchment and the image vanished.

"The trick is to really believe in the memory you want to preserve. If not, you can say the incantation a hundred times, and nothing will happen. Just like with a Patronus. I've tried it out a few times, and I think that we could even choose the symbols that appears, so that each one represent our personalities…what do you think?"

"It's brilliant," Ron breathed, "absolutely bloody brilliant. Hermione, how you think these things up is beyond me." Ginny nodded approvingly, a mixture of sadness and happiness on her face. Harry, who during the whole explanation had stayed completely still, broke into a smile. He started spurting ideas on how, when and where to use the charm, and soon everyone had joined in. An hour later, they had each successfully tried the incantation, and through an accident of Ron's, figured out that they could make two corresponding symbols, that had to be touched at the same time in order to activate the charm. This would prevent people from accidentally producing a giant, glowing picture, and at the same time create a kind of scavenger hunt, which might appeal to curious student like themselves. The library book Hermione unearthed from her ever-present schoolbag,_ 'Hogwarts, a History'_, was chosen as the highly befitting object on which to cast their charms. As the four of them headed to the Great Hall for dinner, all that remained was for each of them to create their symbols, and then, cast _Confido Memoria_.

As dinner commenced, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny were deep in thought, each of them silently wondering about the memory they would choose.


	2. Lightning Bolt: Harry's Memory

**Disclaimer:** All chracters and settings belong to the wonderful JKR. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

**A/N:** Thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter - you reallymde my day, and gave good advice. And thanks, as always, to Bob the Frog, for being such a wondeful beta. Hope you enjoy this next part.

* * *

Lightening Bolt: Harry's Memory:

Harry's feet hit the ground with a thud, and with great regret, he swung his legs from his broomstick and stood up straight. The Quidditch pitch was shaded and quiet, and as he started to walk towards the castle, the wet ground squelched under his feet.

The first match of the season was fast in a week; Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and Harry had spent the last few hours practicing the complicated dives, turns and rolls that were part of Gryffindor's new strategy. It was a marvellous feeling to be up in the air again, after a long magic-and-Quidditch-deprived summer. With all the work his professors had assigned, Harry had barely had time to step outside. His mind was constantly clouded, crammed with facts and spells to practice and remember, and for once, it was nice to forget it all. The air rushed through his hair, whistled in his ears, and the only things that filled his mind were careful precision and extreme concentration.

Lately, the Quidditch pitch had been only place where he felt truly happy. Everywhere else was too full of Sirius, of the prophesy, of memories of the past. These thoughts that normally pressed down on his mind and heart, dragging him ever deeper, where left on the ground when he mounted his broom. And blissfully, as he stepped through the giant front doors of Hogwarts, they hadn't yet sunk back in.

He walked into the entrance hall, and made his way to the foot of the great marble staircase leading upstairs. Suddenly his stomach gave a loud rumble, and Harry reconsidered, going down the staircase to the kitchens. He had barely eaten at dinner, his mind preoccupied by thoughts of flying, and now, after hours of hard exercise, he wasn't surprised to find himself hungry. Down the stairs he went, right to the painting of the fruit bowl, and just as his hand reached out to tickle the pear, there was a meowing sound.

Harry looked behind him and spotted Mrs. Norris, her beady eyes glowing as she stared at him. She stood upon a set of wet and very muddy footprints, her tail waving with glee. For a moment Harry felt sorry for the student who had made those tracks. Since Umbridge's departure, Filch had been very, very cranky, and he vented his anger on pranksters and mess-makers. But then Harry looked down at his own feet and robes, and his stomach gave a sick jolt. The tracks were his.

It had rained at some point during his practice, but with his glasses charmed against water and wind, Harry had barely noticed. Only the falling night had brought him in, reluctantly touching down as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Still working over plays in his minds, only now did he realize that his robes were sopping wet, dripping rainwater onto the floor, and that his shoes were completely muddy.

Quickly Harry looked around. Being caught by Filch would mean three days of detention, using up the precious little practice time he had. The only option was to somehow slip away, though wet, tired, and without the Marauder's map or the invisibility cloak. It wouldn't be easy to do, especially watched by Mrs. Norris,

Briefly he thought of his broomstick. The entrance hall had a high, vaulted ceiling, and if he flew to the very top, Filch would never think to look up. The footprints would disappear right in front of the fruit bowl painting, leading the angry caretaker on a wild goose chase through the kitchens. But if he were caught, his punishment would be far worse. Flying inside was a major breach of Hogwarts rules.

Harry heard footsteps from far down the hall, and Mrs. Norris meowed even more insistently. Making a decision, he raced up the stairs, back into the entrance hall and out the front doors, knowing that his feet were just as wet as the ground, and that his steps would be impossible to pick out. He could hear Filch calling to Mrs. Norris, and Harry ducked into a garden he hadn't entered since the Yule Ball.

He walked past rosebushes, and over to the trees and hedges, planning to sit on one of the carved stone benches until he could safely return to his dormitory. As he rounded a corner, walking deeper into the garden, there were sections of hedges that squared off into little alcoves, concealing groups of benches from view. Harry stepped into the farthest one, and was met by the sight of a huddled black shape with long, flaming red hair. Ginny Weasley.

Suddenly the turmoil of thoughts and problems left by the Quidditch pitch flew back to him, his mind and heart instantly heavy, his good mood gone. In a flash he remembered the common room buzzing with talk, the Great Hall flooded with copies of the Daily Prophet. Death Eaters had made an attack in the magical Underground, and all of Hogwarts - all of the wizarding world - buzzed with doubt, worry and shock. He remembered Hermione's concerned face, Ron's carefully cheerful banter - his best friends had acted like he was an emotional time-bomb, ready to explode. He remembered Ginny's pale and stricken face, he lips pressed tightly together as all of Gryffindor speculated and talked.

During the summer Harry had gotten to know Ginny, for what seemed like the first time. He no longer considered her as simply Ron's little sister, or the clumsy young girl who used to like him. He found that it easy to be around her, and that she always listened to him and made him laugh. Friendship wasn't exactly the right word, because it was different with Ginny than with Ron or Hermione, though Harry didn't know exactly how or why. But it was a good difference. Except for right now, because if it were Hermione crying, or Ron sad, he would have idea of what to do. But it was Ginny, and Harry was completely lost.

He wondered whether he should leave her be. He didn't want to invade such a personal and private moment. And a crying girl, even one he knew, was an absolutely terrifying prospect, much more so than detention with Filch. He almost turned to leave, but then looked at her again. She was curled up on the bench, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Under the shelter of a tall elm tree, the ground around her had stayed dry, and surrounded by wet and puddles, she looked like a shipwreck stranded on an island. Trying to ignore the panic signals his brain was sending, Harry slowly approached the bench, and gently tapped Ginny on the shoulder.

Ginny spun around, so quickly that Harry was surprised to find her suddenly sitting beside him. She stared at him, her eyes wide, her face red and blotchy and her eyes shinning wet. As she registered who was sitting beside her, her mouth formed a small O, and then a tear slid down her cheek as she turned away from him.

Harry was absolutely terrified. Ginny was crying, she looked a mess, and now she had turned her back from him, obviously wanting him to go away. But it was too late for that. Now that he had seen her, he couldn't just leave her alone. Something about her quiet despair shook Harry, and dimly he recognized himself in her eyes. How many times had he been depressed or sad, and had hidden his emotion so well from the world that the comfort he needed had never been given? Ginny couldn't turn into him, couldn't be sad like him. More importantly, Harry wouldn't allow her to be sad _because_of him, and right now, he was the source of her fresh onset of tears.

He thought of what her brothers would do: Fred, George, Bill, Charlie or even Ron. Surely he had seen them comfort her at some point! As Ginny's body curled up even tighter, Harry frantically racked his brain, trying to recall some sort of gesture to make her feel better. Then he remembered Charlie, during his fourth year, clapping him on the shoulder to show his support. Bashing Ginny would do no good, but maybe if he were just a little gentler…

Carefully Harry reached out, and quietly he patted Ginny's shoulder. Her crying seemed to worsen, but at a complete loss for anything else to do, he just kept patting, until she stopped sobbing and shaking and her tears dried up. As she turned to face him, sitting up, Harry quickly removed his hand from her back. Her face was still very red, and so were her eyes, and as she opened her mouth a hiccough escaped. Besides that, there was silence, and as the seconds passed it seemed to grow larger and heavier, until the space between them was completely filled. Harry could almost feel the quiet pressing down, but he still had no idea what to say, and so his heart sank gradually, heavier and heavier, until finally Ginny uttered a sound.

"I…"

Then the tension snapped, and Ginny's troubles flowed out of her mind. Harry listened, not daring to say a thing, She was talking so fast that her words barely registered. He caught _You-Know-Who_, _Tom_, _evil_ and _my fault_ before her speech accelerated to a speed undecipherable by man. But still, Harry though that he caught her drift, and was immediately outraged.

How could she think that what had happened in the Underground was her fault? Or what had happened with Tom Riddle's diary - Ginny wasn't to blame for that either. It wasn't her fault that Lucius Malfoy was a completely evil git, or that the magic in the diary had been too strong for her to withstand. On the contrary, Dumbledore thought that Ginny's will was what had stopped the basilik from killing anybody outright. But here she was, going on about how she should have done something then, and how maybe those people in the Underground might have been safe. _Tom chose me because I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't good enough, and he used the evil in my heart_.

How could she say these things? Ginny was the nicest, purest, most kind person he knew. At times in the past months, she had been able to cheer him up when even Quidditch, Ron or Hermione could not. She had smiled at him, smiled at everybody, even clumsy Neville and annoying Dennis Creevey. And all because of Voldermort she believed that there was evil in her heart, and that –

Harry noticed with a jolt that Ginny had stopped talking. His mind raced. How could he convince her that she wasn't evil, that really she was the nicest person he knew, and that what Voldermort had done was no fault of hers? For a second, this last thought struck him as ironic. How often had he placed the responsibility for Voldermort actions upon his own head? But then Harry pushed that thought out of his mind, as Ginny said:

"I'm sorry."

Sorry? How could she be sorry? It was he who should be apologizing, for having invaded her space, for not making her feel better…

"I didn't want to worry anybody, so I came out here, and –

Unwillingly, a sob wracked through her body, and tears welled in her eyes once again. Thinking of the comfort provided by Mrs. Weasley, Harry did the first thing that came to mind, and reached out his arms to envelop Ginny in a hug. On impulse and perhaps, like Harry, reminded of her mother, she wrapped her arms around him, clinging as if he were a lifeline. Her hair fell around her face in a curtain, and her forehead almost touched his shoulder as she cried herself out, one last time, allowing her grief to escape.

Suddenly Harry was very conscious of himself, and of the fact that his robes were still soaking wet. Surely Ginny didn't like being hugged by someone who was practically dripping. He waited for her to pull away, and was surprised to realize that he didn't want her to. She didn't move, and from behind her hair, gave a tiny sniffle. He stayed completely still, afraid to chase her away, but then she took away her arms from around his body, and despite wishing to keep her there, he felt obliged to do the same. With her head still nearly touching his shoulder, she lifted her hands, tucking her hair behind her ears. Harry could just barely see her face, and her eyes were finally dry, her features more peaceful. She sat up straight and lifted her head, causing her body to move slightly closer to his. Fully looking at her face now, Harry searched for something to say.

What was there to tell Ginny, now that somehow, things had changed? She had shared her deepest secret with him, had opened her heart. She was a friend, but different than anyone else, different than Ron, Hermione, or any other person. He could feel the cold air on his robes, brushing the spots where her arms had held him, and he wanted that warmth back. He wanted to make her feel better, to prove to her that she was beautiful and nice, because she had always listened to him. He wanted to tell her that he was happy to do the same for her, but the only two words that came to mind were the ones that Ginny had just used.

"Thank you".

She moved closer to him as she spoke, and leaned her face in so that they were looking eye to eye. Her eyes were very brown, Harry noticed. He could hear her breathing, soft and slightly unsteady, and he closed the gap between their bodies, wanting her warmth against him. He could feel her breath on his cheek, and a million different thoughts raced through his head: _what am I doing? What's going on? _He ignored them all, and instead, listened to an instinct that he hadn't known to posses until now. He turned until her breath fell on the corner of his jaw, then on his mouth. Ginny didn't move. Slowly, bit by bit, Harry leaned in, until ever so lightly, his lips brushed hers. She didn't pull away. They stayed like that for a moment, just barely touching, and then suddenly Harry had a horrible thought.

"What about Michael Corner. And Dean?"

What was he doing? His feelings for Ginny were a brand new realization, but hers had been present since second year. _Had_ been present, because then she hadn't liked him anymore, and had gone out with Michael Corner, and maybe Dean Thomas. And she was Ron's little sister, and the daughter of Mrs. Weasley, who was practically his mother.

But Ginny just shook her head, answering all his questions and worries at once. Yes, she still liked him. No, she hadn't gone out with Dean. And no, it didn't matter that she was Ron sister, or Mrs. Weasley's daughter, or related to every other highly protective Weasley male. Harry looked at her, her eyes, and caught the message. All that mattered was here. So he leaned in to kiss her again, wrapping his arms around her middle, closing the space between them. Her arms twined up and around his neck and their lips met again, less hesitant this time.

Harry could feel her hair against his cheek; feel her soft lips move against his, warm. He could feel her spine beneath the fabric of her robes, and he knew that with her hands on his back, she could feel the same thing. He was still unsure of all his feelings, unsure of what to say or what to do. But there was one thing that Harry was sure of. That Ginny was more than a friend, beyond that, and that right now, things between them were changing once again. And that was OK.


End file.
